Happily Never After
by SnowFallsSilverOnRoute37
Summary: Not all stories have a happy ending. Kind of depressing- but that's the point of the writing... You'll see. Two-shot, which seems wierd, but I think it's fitting for this story. Review please!
1. Prologue

**I figured this one kinda needed an intro. I may make an outro too.**

**Meri**

* * *

The worn wooden sign with its lopsided letters burned into it.

South Park.

It was remarkably easy to simply pass the boundary the insignificant little wooden post marked.

We know that many of the South Parkers we know did so.

Some went on to Capitol City, to pursue a successful career.

Some found love and settled in Denver.

Nobody wanted to stay caged in the rustic little mountain town that had near enough held them captive as children.

Nobody _wanted_ to.

One of our friends will make a desperate attempt to free himself from the glass jar that traps a butterfly trying to move past the vicinity of its cocoon.

He will fail. He will die like the little butterfly deprived of sunlight and fresh air.

Another one of our- ah, _friends, _so to say, simply will not give a shit as to whether he goes or stays, as long as he can have someone ready to cater to his every need.

The life he lives will cause the death he dies.

Not a pleasant one.

Although one is inclined to believe he would have wanted it this way.

Read on if you like.

If you'd like to hear

about

the

ones

that

never

truly

made

it

out

of

South

Park.


	2. I- Leopold B Stotch

He was always the quiet one. Never spoke much- never had strong opinions about anything. And when he disagreed with something, his small voice would be overruled by the jeers and taunts until he caved in and let the others have their own way. He would take it all into stride, with a good attitude and a grin that wasn't really there. His parents called him an angel. His "friends", as he liked to refer to them (though he knew it wasn't true), called him a pussy. Or a dipwad. Or a fag. He laughed it off. He said he didn't mind. He did mind. He "didn't want to cause a fuss". But that was Butters.

They used to laugh at him for stuttering slightly, and making lame remarks, and being horribly misinformed about puberty. Now they laughed at him for staying quiet. He didn't even try to be an individual anymore. It was always; "Yes, Mr Garrison". "Yes, Eric". "Yes, Mom". He didn't love it, really. But people had to have one person they could always boss around, didn't they? He thought so. He really did. Until the day he turned twenty-three and finally exchanged the snowy slopes of South Park for the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple. He thought he could publish his memoirs. But it just went to show him he was no less naive than the innocent nine-year-old boy of yore. He could only afford the tiniest of apartments, and even then he struggled to pay his bills. He had no lighting, electricity, and most of the time, no dinner.

He'd spent the last of his savings on a primitive typewriter. The days were long and his fingers became more and more fatigued every evening. He was euphoric when the pile of paper was finally finished, though he could barely pick it up with the state of his hands. He waited anxiously for the return letter- in the meantime working as an underpaid McSlave at one of the many, many outlets in New York. He just made enough to get a TV dinner each day. After fourteen months the young man looked very ill; his skin was sallow and and a yellowish color, his once bright blue eyes were sunken and he had dark circles under his eyes. His blond hair, once vibrant and wavy, now hung limply on both sides of his face.

He'd almost forgotten about the memoirs when the letter came. His face lit up when he envisioned the penthouse he'd be able to buy, and the money he'd make. He breathed in, and opened the letter. His face fell as he looked over it. "_Dear Mr Stotch, we have recieved your manuscript. Sadly, it was not what we are looking for at this time, although we look forward to working with you in the future._" He scoffed. There wasn't going to _be _a next time. This was going to be his big break- and his last shot. He'd rather starve here than go back to his home town begging for shelter.

Just how little everybody cared, he never knew in life. Maybe he didn't want to face facts- and who could blame him? But for a hundred years to come the boy's gravestone would read "L. Butters Stooch". Nobody cared at all. They never did. They didn't notice he was gone. Granted, there was always that little person somewhere- the unremarkable, quiet kid... But that was nothing. That was Butters.


	3. II- Eric T Cartman

The young man sat on the battered red couch- more enveloped it than sat on it. He couldn't have been less than five hundred pounds. Yet he was happy with his life- his Mom still bending over backwards to cater to him after twenty-two years- and with who he was. Love handles, ham thighs, muffin top, pitstains, nine chins and all. A lot to be happy with. But he managed it. That was Cartman, the narcissistic fat boy.

"Eric, poopsydoodles, would you mind going outside for just a minute-"

"NO! GODDAMMIT MOM, I'M ONLY FIVE FORTY-EIGHT! I GOT TWENTY FUCKIN' YEARS TO LIVE!"

"All right then. 'hon."

God, his Mom was annoying. "Get some exercise, Eric." "Obesity shortens your lifespan, Eric." But he lived with her and she did the dusting, so he didn't yell at her more than he really needed to.

He sometimes wondered what happened to his old friends, who adored him so and he knew missed him incredibly wherever they were. Stan went into geology- just like his Dad, although unlike him Stan was good at what he did- and moved into Denver, he knew that much. Kyle, that dumb kike, worked at the J-Mart. He wished he could fit in the car to go down there and tell Kyle he was screwed. The other would just call him a fat fuck. Let's see- Kenny went and hooked up with that Wendy chick- who'd-a thunk it, Kenny the perv settling down and getting married- and last but not least on the pitifully short list of people he knew or cared about the tiniest bit- Butters. He moved into New York a week ago. Going to write his memoirs, the boy said. _Sure, Butters. You become a published author for something you actually wrote yourself. You go do that._

He turned to the T.V. His favorite show was on next. Terrance and Phillip. Still doing shows after seventeen years. Of course, their hair grayed a little, Terrance was now obese, and Phillip had an artificial hip, but the duo's ability to fart at will and laugh mindlessly about it never faded.

"Hey Terrance!"

"What is it, Phillip?"

"This, Terrance!" The ashen-blonde Canadian farted into the other's face, jumping up into the air but landing unfortunately and screaming in pain, which sent the fat man into hysterical fits of laughter.

"Holy- shit- Phillip- busted- his- good- hip!" He almost couldn't breathe for laughing, and his face was going red.

"He- broke- his- good- hip- and- now- he's- in- pain- and it's so fucking hilariou-" His sentence was cut short when he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest.

"Holy... f-fuck... not... again..." He stuttered weakly. He then sagged off the couch and onto the ground. The fat man's mother walked back into the room. She gasped, then rolled her eyes and dialed a number on the phone.

"This is 911. What emergency service do you require?"

"Good afternoon, Joey. It's Liane. Eric's had an accident again."

"That's the fifth time this month, Liane. We can't keep doing this. What are we, Canada with its big-shot free medical care?"

"I know, I know. One more time, at least. Please, Joey?"

"All right then. Just once more."

"That's all we'll need this week, Joey."

A groan could be heard from the other end of the line. Minutes later an ambulance came speeding into the driveway. Liane opened the door and lazily waved her hand in the direction of the slumped body on the floor, to indicate where the paramedics needed to be.

One of them left the crowd after a little while and went to talk to Liane.

"M'am? I'm afraid we've lost him."

"Oh, how wonderful. Thank you for all your- wait. What did you say?" Liane's ears, so accustomed to hearing her son would be fine if he laid off the Butterfingers, hadn't quite comprehended the last part.

"We've lost him. He's gone."

"Oh. Oh. Oh... oh no. Oh no. OH GOD, NO!" The message finally getting through to her, Liane lapsed into hysterics.

"HE CAN'T BE GONE! HE WAS SUCH A GOOD BOY! HE CAN'T.. he can't be-" She began to sob uncontrollably. The paramedic put his hand on her shoulder.

"We can take him to the morgue if you like, and you can arrange your choice of funeral."

"Oh my- yes please. I can't- yes."

As she sat on the couch where her beloved little boy had lain- alive- an hour ago, Liane couldn't help but think that in some twisted way, she had been right when she told the 911 operator they'd only need one more trip to the hospital.

One more time.

That was it.

That was all they had needed.

And the end of Eric Cartman.


	4. Epilogue

Do you see now?

The two extremes.

The strong and the weak of will. The ant and the lion. The fish and the whale.

What do they have in common?

Not much.

Except

that

they

never

truly

made

it

out

of

South

Park.


End file.
